


Payback

by Emachinescat



Category: Drake & Josh
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Episode Tag, Episode: Dune Buggy, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Dune Buggy. Josh is pretty pleased with himself for finally getting Drake back – until he sees the extent of damage actually done to his brother. "I can't believe I hurt him like that. I just wanted to see him grounded, not pounded."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payback

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

I really screwed up today. More so than usual this time, which is saying something – I seem to be screwing stuff up a  _lot_  lately. I broke the TV  _and_  lied about it. Sure, Drake started the pillow fight that ended in the unfortunate demise of the family's television, and yes, he was the little devil sitting on my left shoulder and planting thoughts of lying in my brain. And he drinks out of the juice carton and skips school and puts his feet on the coffee table and wrecks dune buggies and he  _never_  gets caught. And this one time—Oh, wait. Sorry, what was I talking about?

Right. Even though Drake was the catalyst for this whole ugly mess, I definitely made it worse. All because I couldn't stand Drake getting away with anything else. Because I was jealous. But if I had known just how banged up Drake had gotten because of the dune buggy wreck, I never would have tried to get back at him the way that I did. For goodness sake, I just wanted to see him grounded, not pounded.

I guess I knew from the moment the idea popped into my head that there were moral issues with it. I mean, the doctor on the phone  _had_  said that Drake had been injured and that he was sore and needed rest, but I was thinking a couple of minor bruises and a scratch or two. I should have realized, if not by the state of the buggy, then by the fact that stubborn, tough-guy Drake had voluntarily gone to the hospital, that his injuries were more severe than just some light bruising. Thinking back, I believe that little twinge of guilt was quickly covered by the forming idea when I realized that I finally had some dirt on Drake and could use it to my advantage.

So I told Dad I was wanting to try out for the wrestling team. Never going to happen, by the way, because guys like me don't wrestle unless they want to be turned into people-flavored pancakes. I asked him to demonstrate on Drake, so I could see some of the moves. The little bit of guilt flared up briefly when I saw the way Drake was slouched, tensed and pained, on the sofa and then again at the dread in his eyes at my suggestion. I waved it aside, though. This was my moment. Drake was finally going to get some consequences for his actions. He'd gone against Mom and Dad's orders and driven the buggy and he'd gone and gotten himself hurt in the process. Come to think of it, I think I was mostly angry because not only had he done all of the before-mentioned deeds, but because he'd hurt himself and was hiding it because he didn't want to get grounded. How selfish is that?

If I'd known just how badly hurt my stepbrother was, I wouldn't have reacted the way that I did.

I could tell that the full nelson Dad demonstrated on him was agonizing, and the takedown even made  _me_  flinch in sympathy from the sidelines. I kept telling myself that he deserved it; he had brought this upon himself. He could handle a bit of pain after everything he'd done and gotten away with. In the short time that we'd been brothers, he'd driven me up the wall so far that I was almost touching the ceiling. Payback was sweet. For the moment.

I noticed after our confrontation after the wrestling practice that Drake could barely keep from wincing with every move he made. I started to feel bad again, but when he – most surprisingly – decided to 'fess up, I was too excited about the prospect of him getting grounded that the effect of my "punishment" didn't really occur to me until Mom and Dad reacted incredulously to my making him wrestle when I knew about his injuries. The guilt really started pouring on when Mom said that he could barely stand, but abated a bit at my bratty brother's remark: "Go easy on him, he's a good kid." That made me want to practice Dad's wrestling techniques on him then and there.

So yeah. I was happy, if a bit guilty. Drake had finally gotten his come-uppance and even though it wasn't what I'd expected, what with him getting to lie in bed for two weeks getting waited on hand and foot, he had still technically been caught and grounded. Well, not caught, really, since he gave himself up, but still! It counts!

Not that it mattered the next day, because what I saw then made me realize just how much of a jerk I'd been – because Drake just hadn't been lightly bruised, but badly hurt, and I had only added to his misery.

* * *

I got home from school earlier than usual because I didn't have to wait for Drake to finish kissing his girl of the day before I left. I thought Drake might be sleeping still – when he doesn't go to school, he sleeps  _late!_  – so I decided to be merciful and slip in the room quietly just in case. The sight that greeted me was definitely not one that was expected.

"Aaah!" Drake grunted as he stood in the middle of the room, struggling with his pizza-stained pajama shirt. I just stood there and watched, kind of amused, as he fought with the garment, trying to pull it over his bed-head, but the amusement vanished when he finally managed to pull it off and his back was revealed. His back barely had any normal coloring because it was blotched with bruises of various shapes and sizes, and of all colors. They reached around his sides and dipped past his waistband onto his hips. It looked like he had been beaten to a pulp by a bunch of thugs. I noticed his left wrist was discolored and swollen, which, along with the bruises on his arms, explained why he'd been wearing only long shirts since the wreck.

At my gasp of surprise, he spun around, wincing, and I got a clear view of the damage done to his front, which was just as bad, if not worse, than his back. Deep purple bruises circled in flaming red covered his swollen rib area and stomach, and now that he didn't have to hide his injuries any more, he'd taken off the make-up and I saw that his face was bruised and cut. We stood there for several long moments, looking awkwardly at each other, before Drake groped for the clean shirt lying on his bed platform beside him and held it to his chest like a lifeline, as if trying to hide the extent of the damage from me. Too late.

"Josh." Drake took a step back and although he tried to hide it, I saw the wince of pain. "You're home early."

"Yeah," I acknowledged, looking anywhere but Drake's eyes. "Guess I am."

Drake cleared his throat. I stared at the floor. We spoke at the exact same time.

"Drake—"

"Josh—"

He chuckled humorlessly. "You go first."

I nodded, trying to muster up the courage to say I was sorry for making his pain even worse, to try and explain that I'd had no idea just how bad off he'd been, but instead I asked, "So just how badly hurt are you, anyway? You never told me exactly what the doctor said."

Drake looked uncomfortable and he shrugged, hissing in pain at the sudden motion. Guilt flared in me again. I'd guess the shoulder and neck pain was mostly from the full nelson. "Severe bruising, especially to my ribs and hips. And a couple of sprains – my wrist, my elbow, my knee. Nothing's broken."

Although the guilt was rising, so was my anger, and the latter was much easier to express. "What the heck were you thinking, Drake?" I demanded, heat flying from my voice. "Just look at yourself! You look like a freaking… calico with all those colors and splotches! You are hurt – pretty badly, I might add – and you kept it to yourself because you didn't want to get  _grounded?_  Did it ever occur to you that not doing what the doctor ordered could get you hurt even  _worse_? That if you didn't lie down and let your body heal, that you might actually end up breaking something?"

"I've already heard this from Mom and Dad," Drake mumbled, but I didn't care. I was livid.

"You could have wound up back in the hospital because you were too stubborn to just tell the truth!" I raged. My voice raises a couple of octaves when I get mad, so I sounded a bit soprano at this point, and I didn't even bother to be embarrassed.

"Yeah, well, I could've ended up back in the hospital after wrestling Dad, too," Drake pointed out, freezing me in my tracks.

He was right. He was so very right. I did this. I fumbled for words, my eyes burning and guilt welling up in my chest. "I—I didn't know. How bad it was, I mean. I didn't… I wouldn't…"

Drake winced as he leaned gingerly against his bed platform. "I know. But… it hurt, Josh."

And I knew he wasn't just talking about physical pain, but the fact that I had known he was injured and intentionally made the pain worse. Even though Drake had been Count Jerkula over the past few days, I had hit a new low. I should have  _never_  tried to get back at him the way I did.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

Drake nodded. "I know."

There was another awkward pause, this one longer than the last. Finally, I broke the ice by admitting, "I'm glad you're okay, bro."

"Yeah… me too."

"Thanks for telling the truth, Drake."

My stepbrother raised his eyebrows. "Wouldn't have done it without my pain in the neck brother breathing down my neck," he griped, and even though his tone was condescending, I almost smiled. He'd called me his brother. Which could only mean one thing – he'd forgiven me. Now I just had to forgive myself, which would take a while, but I would do it, eventually.

Drake turned his back, probably because he could sense emotions rising and didn't want a Hallmark moment, and began the arduous task of putting his new shirt on. I watched for only a couple of seconds before I strode forward, helped him ease the white shirt over his head and battered body, and then helped him back up the ladder and into bed. "Now you stay put," I ordered, knowing by the pain etched in Drake's face that he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon.

He didn't say anything, and suddenly feeling self-conscious, I began to walk out of the room. "Josh."

I stopped, turned around. "Yeah, Drake?"

"I'm sorry… and thanks, man."

I allowed myself a small but genuine smile. "Right back atcha, bro."

And I knew that even though there were countless arguments, fights, and groundings ahead of us, that we had overcome the first real hurdle in our relationship and were closer than before. In all honesty, I think that moment was when we first really became brothers.


End file.
